


To Defy Gods and Devils

by amaranthinecanicular



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:25:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaranthinecanicular/pseuds/amaranthinecanicular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're a demon, and he's an angel, and you suppose it was always bound to end like this, ironic or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Defy Gods and Devils

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoubleMeh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleMeh/gifts).



In your first meeting, he smites you. He was sent to protect the pair from the likes of you, and as you learn, he takes his job very seriously. You had said as much, and then the smiting had commenced.

Your superiors send you back, and in your second meeting you manage to poison him before he crushes your skull under his heel. Still, you had made it farther into the Garden this time. A little sneakier and you’ll be in.

Your third meeting you try a new tactic, which involves hiding in a tree and teasing him. He's so tightly wound, and you know you won’t make it past him until you get his guard down. He's angry at first, swearing at you in Enochian so creative you’d have sworn he was a demon if you didn’t know any better. But after a while of casual chatting and cajoling, his hackles lower, and his righteous fury cools. He’s still wary of you, that much is obvious, but when you poke fun at yourself and your comparative difference in size he actually… laughs. It’s just a soft, quick little snort, and he snuffs it out quickly, but the mirth is still curled in his tone, still crinkled around his soft Heaven-sky eyes. It makes you curious despite yourself.

Your fourth and fifth meetings are the same. You wrap yourself around a tree branch, pester and goad him to see his feathers rumple. You find that he’s clever – not as clever as you, of course, but clever enough to get under your scales some when you’re not careful, and rather than upset you when you realize this, you – honestly? You’re intrigued. You’re entertained, you’re amused, and his swearing is funny as hell (pun totally intended). Everyone Below is so _boring,_ so easy to tear down. Your brother was the only one who could match you, but he’s gone now, and what was the point of Falling if Hell was going to be just as boring as Heaven?

But this angel is bright, and shiny, and _new_ , and filled with such righteous fire you’re surprised he hadn’t burned up yet.

Your sixth meeting is similar to the last few, and by now you’ve nearly forgotten your original mission until some other demons… _remind_ you. Your wings are still a little sore when you approach the prickly angel the seventh time. You go to him in your other form, wings spread skyward like his, feet bare, a sign of trust. He fights you with his Holy Sickle or whatever the fuck it is, and the weapon rings out like thunder against your hellfire sword, but soon he’s grinning and you’re grinning and yeah it’s _strifing_ but there’s no actual _smiting_ and _damn_ it’s been forever since you’d had fun like this. Since your bro disappeared, actually-

Fighting the angel isn’t much fun after that.

Your eighth meeting is brief. You wouldn’t be like your brother, you decided. You don’t know what it is about this angel that amuses you so, but you aren’t about to stick around to find out and get yourself killed. You approach him in your original form and he almost seemed happy to see you, past the eyerolls and the swearing and the threatening, and you had humored him, took brief pleasure in his blustery, bright company and his Heaven eyes – pretended to, _pretended_ to take pleasure in – and just when he lowered his guard you struck at his throat.

Your ninth meeting was anger and hurt and betrayal. The damage was done and the first storms were rolling over Eden (it wasn’t even hard, after you’d gotten past the angel; you just had to nudge and persuade and smooth-talk a little and that was that. Not nearly as much of a challenge as your grumpy angel had been). His sickle had been confiscated for his failure and he had been banished to the earth for the next couple millennia, but he still managed to strangle you with strong, vengeful fingers. He snarled at you all the way down, speaking so fast and so furious you couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying – part of that may have been the asphyxiation – but it sounded distinctly like betrayal. The first rain pelted down and the last thing you remembered was the way it matted down his dark curls, how prettily it matched his tears.

==>

Your tenth meeting is a fluke, or a mistake, or - or _something_. They congratulated you when you appeared back Below, said you were much worse than your brother, which you knew meant better in demon-speak, but it didn’t make you feel any better. All you can see is your brother’s ember eyes, and your angel’s wounded Heaven eyes, and when they give you free reign on your next post as reward—

“Earth,” you say, like the fucking chump you are, “I want to be stationed on Earth.”

You hadn’t meant to say that at all. But you can’t get him out of your head, and maybe some part of you wanted to see him one more time, but hell if you’d ever _say_ that. Instead when they ask why you just shrug and say, “Getting a little stale down here, you know? No offense.” 

There were pretty happy to send you up after that.

So you meet him for the tenth time, but only after meeting the two humans first, shivering in the cold and the rain. You’d done that, you suppose, and you figure if you’re going to feel guilty over stupid things anyhow you might as well go all the way. So you meet him weaponless, and he only notices when he’s got his fingers once again wrapped around your vulnerable, non-reptilian throat.

“You’ve got a lot of balls coming here up again, you vile showboating little shitstain,” any trust or fondness is gone from his eyes and it surprises you, really, how that stings. “Any last words before I send you packing straight back to Satan’s fiery blistered asshole, fucker?”

“Sure,” you croak with what little air you have left, “you’re really going to smite an unarmed Adversary? Pretty demonic, man,”

And by some strange miracle he pauses, and he looks at you, and he growls, “Shut the fuck up. Tell me where that sword you use to compensate with is so I can shove it up your ass,”

“Okay, first, uncool, I am not compensating for anything,” he rolls his eyes, “second, those commands kind of contradict – owowow, shit, fine, I gave it to the two out in the forest, let me breathe, hot damn,”

The angel’s wings twitch. He stares at you as though he’s never seen you before. “You _what?_ ”

In this form you have blood and organs and cursedly pale skin – you feel your cheeks heat up. “Look, it’s no big deal, okay? It was just…” _I felt bad, alright? And not bad in the good way._ “They were so damn pathetic, shivering and sniveling like that, it was getting annoying,”

And just like that his wondrous expression morphs regrettably back into a scowl. “You are an unrelenting pustule on the wrinkly, heaving ass of the universe,” he informs you, and punches you in the nose a few times for good measure, but he doesn’t smite you again. You spend the next few centuries wondering what that means.

==>

You try to stay away from him. Really, you do. Humans prove a good distraction for a while; they’re destructive in a way that is neither demonic nor angelic, without purposes purely evil or purely good – they are purely human, and that delights you for a good long while. But humans live and humans die and having lovers stops being fun after the hundredth promise of forever when you know they’re always destined to slip through your fingers. And none of them quite have that something, that spark that he did.

So you seek him out and you find him, if only to prove to yourself that he's not as great as you remember him after all.

You’re right. He’s even better.

He’s gorgeous, in his messy, scruffy way, with rich dark curls and sun-kissed skin and eyes that remind you of those precious few things you miss about Heaven (and damn you to Hell (ha!) if this century’s clothes don’t make that ass look fine). You are briefly conflicted about these observations, until you remind yourself that lust is fine – love is taboo, but lust? Lust is bad (good), lust is terrible (great). In fact you’re probably doing hell a favor by lusting after an angel. What greater sin is there than that? As long as you stay away from love and anything like it, everything’s cool. You pointedly don’t think of your brother and approach the angel in the crowded bazaar.

==>

You tell yourself you aren’t falling for him constantly, and it is very constantly a lie. (Hey, at least you’re lying. Lying is a sin too, right?) But for a long while, even as he begins to forgive you, even as you come to some vague, wishy-washy “Arrangement”, even as you become (dare you say it) (hell yeah you dare) friends, it isn’t quite love. 

Well.

It isn’t love until the Library of Alexandria, anyway.

Over the slowly passing millennia you had learned many things about your angel. One of them was his love for the written word. He cherished and hoarded them in a way that bordered on obsessive, and you never stopped mocking him for it – it was so out of character, after all, not to mention fucking adorable when his eyes light up over some new relic (are they even relics? Humanity hasn’t been around that long, has it?). He would take it and hole himself away in some quiet little corner, and there he would stay, reading for hours and hours and hours. Before you’d seen it for yourself, you never thought he could be so quiet and still.

Right now he isn’t quiet or still. He’s shaking and wailing up a storm, snot and tears running unattractively down his face and ash knotting up his hair. He sees you and bawls louder.

“Go _away_ ,” the angel sobs wretchedly, the flames becoming daring, licking at his bare feet and ankles, and even as the flesh begins to burn he does nothing to stop it. As you stare, he bares his teeth, eyes flashing, and snarls, “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? Leave me the fuck _alone!_ ”

Ah, _there_ it is.

That niggling little something in the back of your skull finally rears its head and exposes itself to the light. That which had always intrigued you, had always brought you back to the angel’s prickly side even when you told yourself that you wouldn’t. That unnamed treasure that you needed to steal and hoard for yourself, because somewhere along the way you had lost it, even though you can’t remember what it was.

Your angel is honest; your angel is true. That’s what really makes him different from those other rotten holier-than-thou bastards, what makes him infinitely more dangerous, infinitely more precious. He knows not what it is to lie through his teeth, because every drop of feeling within him – joy, rage, fear, loss – it all shows on his face, written there for the world to see, just like the scrolls burning below. It’s no wonder he grieves at losing them – they must have been like looking into a mirror. They must have been the only things that understood.

This terrible little angel is so self-destructively genuine that he breaks his own heart.

Your brother fell in love with an angel. Your brother died for an angel. You won’t be like your brother. You’re going to turn around, fly back to hell, tell them to get you a replacement because you’re done with angels and books and smiles and love that you aren't feel. You’ll abandon him, you’ll leave him to his tears and his anger right now. You won’t become your brother.

You pull him into your arms and he sobs against you pathetically. Throughout the long, burning night, you hold him close, and kiss his hair, and point out constellations in the sky.

==>

The Ritz is your favorite hotel by far, brand new and gorgeous and highlighting all the selfish, superfluous, shallow little things humanity has to offer. Not to mention the food is to die for.

It takes you a while (a couple decades, actually) to convince the angel to go with you – he’s a stubborn little guy, a trait as annoying as it is cute, and though the Ritz is nowhere near as new by the time you convince him you still do manage to convince him, and you saunter into the restaurant with a grin on your face and a spring in your step.

“You’re late,” is the first thing he says, cutting viciously into his slice of devil’s food cake. (Another little thing you learned: the angel would have died of diabetes twenty times over by now had he been human.) You fall as casually into your seat as you can – style is important, after all – and make it a point to appearify your food. He scowls at you even harder, and you just smile at him.

Your conversation is pleasant – as pleasant as it get between you two, with your vastly differing opinions and the angel’s mouth – and at some point you say his name in the old tongues, and your Adversary grimaces. 

“I don’t go by that anymore,” he says, lip curling in that unagelic way that makes your heart do Dangerous Things. You play it cool, one corner of your mouth quirking as you ask, “Why not? I thought it was cute,” and the way he flushes makes it totally worth the blustering and swearing and almost-smiting.

“Fine, fine, calm your tits. What do you call yourself then, Angel?” At that, he flushes again, and is suddenly very interested in his crème brulee. You raise a brow. “Come on, you’re not going to make me guess, are you? I thought that was my boss’s job, _pleased to meet you, won’t you guess my name?_ ”

“Do not compare me to your asshole of a boss,” he grumbles, but distractedly so. He fiddles with his silverware for a minute more before finally glaring right at you and saying, “I call myself Karkat Vantas, all right? Are you fucking happy now?” and it's as though he’s daring you to make something of it.

It doesn’t hit you until a moment later as to _why_.

You’re taken back to that night of flames and stars, of constellations, cancer, _karkata_ -

“Oh,” you say, eloquently.

“Fuck you,” he says, equally eloquently.

“I call myself Dave Strider,” you say unhelpfully, and he slumps further into his chair. “Uh… right. Yeah. So, I’m done with my food. Not so hungry anyway. I’ll see you later, Karkata,”

“Karkat,” he mumbles miserably, “Get it right, fucknuts.”

“Right. Karkat. Right. I’ve got to – some stuff has come up, demon stuff, so I’ll just-”

“Oh, just _go_ ,” he moans, willing the money into existence to pay the bill, and you flee.

==>

You avoid him for a decade or two.

Okay, so you panicked. A little overreaction, no big deal. And you’ve finally come to terms with the fact that you’re in love with the prickly little idiot, sure, but you are not prepared at all for those feelings to be reciprocated. You’re a demon, damn it. Loving an angel got your bro killed. You thought you’d be safe as long as the angel never knew, as long as he never felt the same way, but fuck. He changed his name. He changed his name to Karkat.

Still, you regret staying away for so long. There was a time when centuries between visits were commonplace, but now it was rare to go even a year without a word. Over the time you reacquaint yourself with the humans. Do a little demon work. Create a smash hit comic, rot some kids brains, spread a little evil through ironic stupidity. Dumb, simple shit like that. It’s easy, for a while. Nice.

But nice is bad. And fuck if you don’t miss him. You make friends with a mortal, something you haven’t done in a long time, a dumb kid named John Egbert who’s so damn derpy and _good_ it makes you laugh. Karkat would probably chew you out for trying to corrupt one of his own, but you would never tell him that for the great company John turns out to be he could never fill the hole that the angel leaves in your heart. 

In the end, you just can’t stay away. You never really could.

When you enter the bookshop, you are surprised to find the angel has customers. He’s had this bookshop since Alexandria, and he guards his collection as though they were his own children. He never actually lets anyone buy them. Upon closer inspection, however, you discover that no, one of them is not human at all – it’s another angel, a friend of Karkat’s that you’ve seen before. You can’t help but grin.

“’Sup, Kanaya?”

The angel turns to you, and her long, elegant nose scrunches in distaste. “ _You_. I had hoped we had seen the last of you.”

“Aw, I know you missed me, baby. Do you know where Angel is?”

Kanaya’s eyes go hard. “Karkat, you mean? Mr. Strider – it is Strider isn’t it? – I’ll have you know that I never approved of your… relationship with Karkat, but I refrained from acting since he seemed fond of you. After your last little stunt, however, I have no qualms with smiting you here and now-”

“Kanaya, what the fuck have I said about all your goddamn meddling?”

And there he is, short and angry and the least angelic creature in God’s arsenal. He’s perfect.

Kanaya’s pretty lips dip into a frown. “Karkat, I was-”

“No, listen, I can handle my own douchebags, thank you very much. It was nice seeing you again, please come visit again soon, goodbye. Take the freakshow with you.”

For a second, you think he means you, especially with how affronted Kanaya looks. But then Karkat rolls his eyes and says over her protests, “Just take him to his home, will you? He’s harmless, look, he’s stoned out of his mind. I’m getting to him, he won’t hurt a fly. You want to help me, take this fucking idiot off my hands for a little while instead of burrowing a rabbit hole into my personal fucking affairs.”

There’s a long, low honk of laughter from the human in question, and you look over your shoulder to see the other customer you nearly forgot about holy shit that is one terrifying fucking clown.

“Go on, Gamzee, Kanaya will take you home,” Karkat says, gentler than you’ve ever seen him, than he's ever been with _you_ , and it only makes you a little jealous. A little.

“Hey sis,” Gamzee drawls to Kanaya, and the angel grimaces, turning back to Karkat with obvious protests, but he just glares and says “Rose Lalonde,” with purpose, which shuts her right up. Huh. You’ll have to find out what that means.

Just before they leave Kanaya throws you a suspicious glance and Gamzee gives you a nod that makes you briefly fear for your immortal life, and then you’re alone, and Karkat is staring you down with righteous fire in his eyes. The last time he looked at you like that you were smote.

“The last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid,”

You are nearly smote again.

It takes a few months to get back in Karkat’s good graces. He’s the most honest creature you know, and soon you find out just how much your absence hurt him – he was lonely, and worried, and hurt. And it sucks because when he hurts, you hurt too, and you want nothing more than to make him feel better.

But time passes and slowly your persistent efforts are rewarded. You’re gradually reintegrated into his life, and wow, you can’t imagine how you’d even given this up, even if only for a few years. You learn what’s been going on with him over the years you’ve been gone – Kanaya has been visiting more, he recently took on a new project in the name of Gamzee Makara – a damned human whose soul is clearly destined for Hell that Karkat is determined to turn around. You’re not mad (maybe just a _little_ jealous); you have John, after all, and when Karkat asks about your “new douchebag shades” you have the satisfaction of seeing _him_ maybe just a little jealous as you tell him they were a gift from him. Yeah, you have John, but you were right before: he could never replace Karkat.

One night you’re drinking together casually, watching the stars, and he falls asleep on your shoulder (apparently the decades have endeared him to sleeping, too). You watch him for a while, at the ever-present bags under his eyes, at his feathery mess of hair, at his open mouth and the drool that gathers as he snores softly. You would give anything to kiss him.

But your brother died loving an angel, with green eyes instead of silver, and you could become him so easily. Even worse, Karkat could become that angel so easily. If nothing else, you won’t let that happen to him.

So even if he does share your feelings to some extent, it doesn’t matter. You resolved that for yourself while you were away. As long as you don’t act on it you’re fine, he’s fine, everything’s fine. You can still be with him, as you have for the past six millennia.  
You will your alcohol into apple juice before you can do something you’ll regret, and watch the stars in silence, with Karkat’s comforting warmth tucked up against you.

==>

You're a demon, and he's an angel, and you suppose it was always bound to end like this, ironic or not.

Basically, you fuck up. You always knew you would.

It’s your first year back, your first Christmas with him again, and the two of you have finally made up and are drinking in the back of his bookshop. His smiles always get easier when he’s drinking, and yeah, you always get a little handsier, and before the night’s done the two of you are cuddled close on a musty old couch, Karkat nuzzling into your neck and you just smelling his hair like some lovesick idiot.

Normally you sober up when you start feeling like this, when you really start wallowing in your own stupid love-drunk fantasies. Alcohol is your enemy at times like these, but you’re just so warm, and Karkat is just so warm, and boy that name really suits him better than his old one. You tell him so.

“Yeah, well,” Karkat slurs after a pleased little giggle fit, “Dave Strider doesn’t suit you.”

“Hm?”

“Nope. It’s a coolkid name. You’re no cool kid. You’re a huge fucking dork,”

“Hey pot, I’m kettle, what’s up?”

“Shut the fuck up, I don’t need this from you,” but he’s laughing, he’s laughing so hard his head’s thrown back with it, cheeks flushed and eyes scrunched up and oh, fuck, he’s beautiful, he’s so beautiful you finally think you understand the human phrase take your breath away.

“I didn’t get you a Christmas gift,” you blurt, and even drunk Karkat can tell it comes from left field. He rolls with it.

“Well, no shit, Sherlock. You’re a demon. I’m an angel though, so I got you one. Totally badass, too.” He looks so fucking pleased with himself, so damn smug, the cat that ate the canary (Kar-cat, ha). You just stare at him, the shades that John gave you discarded for once, all the better to see him with – does that make him Granny? – and then he smooshes his fingers clumsily into your nose, like John does too, but infinitely more drunk and infinitely more perfect and he’s laughing so sweet and so pretty and what if you just kissed him, just kissed him right now-

So you do.

It’s clumsy and wet and Karkat is surprised, but oh, it’s perfect. He’s so warm, so soft. The opposite of everything you are, in every perfect way. You’ve never felt so great – and not demon great, just plain old happy and great, like you could un-Fall by this feeling alone. You love him, you love him so much it’s ridiculous, and you feel _great_.

“You love me?”

And that feeling gets shot back down to Hell.

“Oh fuck,” you say to Karkat’s stupefied expression, because you hadn’t meant to say that part out loud but you did, and you hadn’t meant to kiss him but you did, and you hadn’t meant for any of this to happen but it did and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-  
You sober yourself up and scramble up from the couch, shoes on your feet and glasses on your face because you will them there, and just before you leave your eyes meet, hellish red against heaven silver.

You rush out a goodbye and go.

==>

For you, Karkat Vantas, it isn’t love until the very end.

No, that’s not true. You suppose it was always love. Love from the first minute he slid on those stupid ass shades. From the first time you saw his hair gleam golden in the sun. From that first damned second he slithered out from under the rock, you were fucked six ways to Easter Sunday.

But it isn’t until the very end that you really acknowledged what had been mocking you all along.

Gamzee brings you a book for Christmas, some old eldritch relic from his cult that makes the collector in you squeal with delight while every other logical impulse in your being is firing off terrified warning signals. But he smiles when you accept it, wide and toothy and utterly without malice, and you can’t help but smile back. He keeps you company over the next two hours, helping you organize your books and gently intimidating potential customers for you, and you take liberal breaks for hot cocoa in which he drapes himself around you and cuddles you like you’re some grumpy, oversized teddy bear. 

During these breaks you show him your gift for Dave, and tell him what happened that night, and debate over what you should do about it. You tell him about your conflicted feelings, and he combs long, patient fingers through your hair as he tells you with long, patient words that you’re thinking too much, brother, got too much doubt rattling around up in that pan of yours, gotta clear the cobwebs and feel what ought to be felt without no dusty doubt bunnies gumming up the works. Seems clear to him that you got yourself all twisted and tied up for him, so why not just tie yourself around him instead and be done with it? You can’t understand half the shit that comes out of his mouth and you tell him as much, but you understand enough of it to make your heart race to think of Dave and his lips and his words and feel guilty in consequence.

The bell over the door rings and you’re forced to untangle yourself from the human’s long limbs to go see who it is. It’s a minor struggle, as you are anxious and fussy and Gamzee is relaxed and slow, but eventually you stumble to your feet and make your way to the front of the shop, rumpled and scowling and prepared to chew out your customer as angelically as possible. You are only slightly surprised to see Kanaya instead, your mood marginally improved, but her gaze is urgent and the bell rings again-

Oh _shit_.

In behind Kanaya walks the Prime Metatron, tall and proud and powerful. Oh shit oh shit oh _shit_. “Oh _shit_ ,”

“Indeed,” she says coolly. Her vessel befits her: gleaming white from head to toe, hair cut in a sharp bob. Her eyes matched her shoes, both dark and sharp and fierce in contrast. You’ve heard the stories about her – once was just a Private Metatron, a common messenger, a lowly foot soldier. But after a dreadful assault against heaven, in which the Prime of the time was killed, she was promoted for taking down the demon responsible for the attack. You heard she had once been very kind, and very forgiving, and very hopeful. You heard she had been good friends with the Prime before her. You heard that she had lost everyone important to her, everyone she loved. You heard that even though she was now the Prime Metatron, direct scribe of God himself, she never stopped being a soldier.

Of course, you don’t know how much of those stories are true; you’d heard them all secondhand from Kanaya, since you were down here at the time. She had warned you that you may be needed on the front, and to be prepared. Dave had been told something similar, and the two of you had found comfort in the other’s presence, drinking and laughing away the fear, sleeping on each other’s shoulder.

“Somethin’ wrong, brother?” Gamzee lilts out from the back of the shop, shoulders lax and smile easy. He comes up next to you and throws a long arm around your shoulders, casual as sin. Kanaya is already prickling – they never did get on well, the few times they’d met, and now you watch Gamzee’s deep violet gaze slide over to the other guest, and you feel the line of his body go tense and taut. The Prime Metatron certainly has a presence, one even a mortal can feel. You clear your throat awkwardly.

“Come on, asshole, don’t be rude. You’ve already met Kanaya, and this is… PM, a work friend of mine,” Gamzee keeps glaring and doesn’t offer his hand, and shit, this could not get any more awkward. “…Right. So PM, this is my friend-”

“I know of you, Gamzee Makara,” PM says over you, eyes dark and blatantly disapproving. You can practically see Gamzee’s hackles raise. “These chicas bringin’ you strife, Karbro? You just gotta all up and ask and I’ll-”

“That won’t be necessary, you great fucking sasquatch,” you assure him hurriedly, and begin to drag him to the door. “I think you should go, Gamzee. I’ve got to talk business with these guys. I’ll see you tomorrow, right? You have to fix the fucking disgrace of a clean-up job you did today.”

For the first time his eyes leave PM and focus on you. There’s concern for you in his big sad eyes, the damn fool. “You just holler once, best friend, and I’ll be here in a pump-beat. You comprehend?”

You pat his cheek fondly as you lead him to the door. “I understand, Gamzee. I’ll see you tomorrow,” 

You close the door after him and watch him cross the street, and over your shoulder the voice comes cold, “You should not be fraternizing with his ilk.” 

You scoff, and have to remind yourself that she could smite you – for real – with just a snap of her fingers. “What, _humans?_ I thought we were supposed to _help_ humans.”

You’re gratified to see PM’s eyes narrow a fraction. “We are supposed to help _our_ humans. Not humans who are destined for Below.”

_Wow, fuck you_. “He’s sweet as starlight if you give him half a chance-”

“Some people don’t deserve half a chance.”

Oh. So that’s how it is.

Your stomach is a churning mix of dizzying nausea and blinding rage. “I thought everyone deserves a chance,” you manage to grit out past the bile in your throat, and PM softens marginally. “I used to think so too,” she says, and you catch a ghost of humanity before it’s gone and she goes hard and icy again, “But I was wrong. Times are different now, and there is no mercy to be spared on unredeemable humans.” You snort and open your mouth to protest, but PM holds up a hand. “This visit is not to debate your distasteful human company. Humans are humans and our superiors will humor your games with them. That game of cat and mouse you play with the demon, however…”

From the folds of her pristine white coat she pulls a familiar sickle, gleaming bluish-white even in the weak lighting of your store. Your jaw drops and your hand moves without your permission, closing around the handle when it’s offered. You flex your fingers around it, and as PM continues speaking you muse and marvel over how it doesn’t seem to fit in your palm anymore. “Our superiors have decided that this particular game of vermin must come to an end.”

Oh.

Oh _fuck_.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” you say.

“Indeed.” She says again.

Your vision is swimming. Your knees nearly give out, and you have to support yourself on the counter behind you. You think of Dave’s cool shades and his cool shoes and his cool suits, and you think of his stupid ass, dorky, completely uncool snorting laughter, you think of that pleasant buzz in your chest and in your head whenever you’re in his presence, whenever your knees brush under the table at the Ritz, you think of his arms around you at the Library of Alexandria, you think of his Christmas gift, _right under this fucking counter_ —

“Oh _Jesus fuck_ ,” you say again. Your legs are shaking, now. Kanaya puts two fingers to your wrist, subtly concerned, but you can barely feel them. “I trust you understand my meaning,” PM says, from far away, and the words hardly register. Your eyes are glued to those shoes of hers, those shiny black shoes, those sharp, dark, glittering shoes—

The shoes tap on your old floors, sharp and impatient. “I trust you understand me, …“ Insert your old name. It wakes you, a little.

“I don’t go by that anymore,” you say, and you see Dave smirking behind your eyes, what do you call yourself then, Angel? “My name is Karkat. Karkat Vantas.” 

“I see. Well, mister Vantas, do you understand me or don’t you? We will have problems if you do not-”

“Yes, I understand you. Yes, I under- _fucking_ -stand you, I fucking _get_ it, hurrah hurrah, I hope I get a trophy for heaving this massive shitpile of understanding you have unloaded upon me, and I hope said trophy is the gigantic feculent stick shoved up your disease ridden asshole, because maybe once I have it in my grubby angelic palms you’ll be able to find it in your heart to be just a little less of a repulsive, merciless, flea-ridden _bitch_.”

Kanaya stares at you, open-mouthed. PM is unfazed.

“Good. I’m glad we comprehend each other. Is there anything else?”

You feel dizzy. You feel sick. All the air goes out of you and you finally lose the battle with your knees to stay standing, and you lose it gloriously. Your voice comes out unbidden, weak and soft. “What are those shoes made of?”

PM looks right at you.

“Snake skin.”

==>

You’re running.

You were sitting in your flat, actually making use of the damn furniture for once, because if you weren’t sitting you’d be standing, and if you were standing you’d be pacing, and your pride could not take pacing like a goddamn mother hen on top of everything else. Even three weeks later you were still fretting about that dumb kiss. How unironic. How uncool. You messed up your hair in frustration and then took half an hour smoothing it back into perfection. Another hour went by as you debated with yourself the merits and pitfalls of going to see Karkat right at that moment, because despite everything, despite your massive utter fuckuppery, you were still dying to see him, hear him, touch him and kiss him again.

“Kissing him was supposed to stop the itch,” you muttered bitterly, because it didn’t – if anything, it’s only doubled the desire. You’d just resigned yourself to another pathetic Karkat-less night holed up in your apartment – maybe you’d call John and the two of you could drown yourselves in videogames and pizza – when the TV flickered on and the static took shape, hissing words and demands and Karkat’s name – his real name, his old name – before you could even get in two words edgewise. You’d told them to slow down, drawled it as you melted back into your couch cushions, the picture of lazy indifference even as your heart did a foxtrot in your chest.

So they slowed down, and they hissed, “We thought you’d have learned after your brother.”

Everything was white noise after that. They hammered the order into your skull until you agreed, numbly. And then everything was quiet, but everything was loud, white noise ringing in your ears louder and louder and everything needed to shut up, everything just needed to shut _up_ , you couldn’t breathe you couldn’t _think_ —

When the red haze over your mind lifted, your immaculate flat was in smoking ruins, and you were lurching out of the shattered doorframe and down onto the street, and _now_ …

Now you’re running. And you’re laughing, you’re laughing till your throat’s raw, because you’ve never run a day in your life, fuck it all. 

Your feet take you to the bookstore, traitorous little bastards that they are, and for a long moment you stand outside the doors, trying to talk your heart down from it’s suicide jump up in your throat. You try to tell your stupid hands to just grab the handle and pull, but they won’t stop shaking.

In the end, you don’t have to.

The doors burst open, and Karkat runs headfirst into you, with such momentum you’re both sent stumbling backwards.

“Dave,” he says, honestly surprised, and for a moment you are shaken from your panic because there are tears in Karkat’s ethereal eyes, real tears, tears you haven’t seen in centuries and centuries. You take a step forward but he takes a step back. There’s something in his hands.

His sickle.

“…So they gave you the order too,” you croak when you finally find your voice. Karkat licks his lips. He nods. You laugh weakly. “Hey, at least it was a good kiss. I thought so anyway. Worth a little damnation,”

He stares helplessly at you, and any attempt at humor dies in your throat. “I was going to warn you,” he says, “They wanted me to kill you, kill you for real, and they were going to do it if I didn’t. They’re probably already at your place. I was afraid they’d killed you, I was going to warn you, help you, but I thought – I though you were fucking _dead_ , Dave, I thought I would be too late, I—”

He breaks off and looks down, shoulders shaking. You know fuckall what to do.

“Are you going to kill me?” Wow, real subtle Dave, real smooth.

He looks at you like you’ve grown a second head (you’re a demon; it’s not impossible). “Didn’t you hear a word I just said?” and the anger in his voice is a strangely familiar comfort, “I was going to warn you, fuckass, not smite you. Kill you? Who the fuck do you take me for? How could I ever kill you? Don’t be a dumbass,” you stare at each other for a moment longer as something slow and terrible dawns over Karkat’s face. You feel dread bubble away in your stomach. You love a lot of the expressions Karkat makes, but this sure as Hell isn’t one of them.

“Were you going to kill me, Dave?”

“I…” You don’t know what you were going to do. Warn him, run away with him, kill him. It was all possible, all up in the air. “…I don’t want to end up like my brother,”

He looks down, the information processing. He nods. Licks his lips. Nods again. Then he laughs, a little hysterically. “Well, I guess you could use this then,”

You hadn’t even noticed he was holding something behind his back in his other hand. A long thin something, wrapped in thick fabric. It calls out to you, and you couldn’t resist even if you wanted to. You haven’t seen your sword in over six thousand years.

Your mouth works soundlessly as you look between him and the blade, and he breaks the silence, as he always does. There are tears in his eyes again as he spreads his out his palms. “Merry-fucking-Christmas, Dave Strider. Ho ho ho. If you’re going to kill me let’s at least do it in fucking private.”

He goes back inside and you follow him blindly. You feel sick. You have no idea what’s happening, how it got this way. Karkat turns back around to look at you, arms still at his sides, eyes empty. You would do anything to wipe that hopeless look off his face, make him smile again. “You’re not even going to defend yourself?” you say desperately.

He throws the sickle away in answer.

“I’m tired, Dave,” He is. He looks so weary. “I’m so fucking exhausted of the games we play. I’m done with them, all right? Game over, I quit, you win.”

He takes the blade himself when you don’t move, positions the tip where his Grace is. You hear it hiss against his flesh. “I didn’t want to win this way,”

“Too fucking late, asshole,” Karkat snarls, tears running down his face, “You should have thought of that six thousand years ago. Do it and be done with it. Free us both.” His mask crumples, just a little, and you get a glimpse of his real reason for giving up, beautiful and awful, “Do it and free _yourself_. Do it and _live_.”

Your hand tightens on the hilt of your sword. Karkat’s eyes close, his beautiful eyes, and you think faintly I don’t want to end up like my brother – your amazing brother that you followed into Hell, your brother who fell in love with an angel, your brother who ran away with and angel, your brother who died for an angel, your brother who grinned at you before the end and said it was worth it—

An _angel_ was worth it, _love_ was worth it—

The sword clatters to the ground.

“I can’t,” you gasp, tears burning down your cheeks as you gather him into your arms because demons were never meant to cry, “Fuck you, fuck me, I can’t, I can’t, I love you, I can’t,”

He takes your face in his hands and kisses you all over, desperate and aching, and you kiss him back, desperate and aching, and it’s wet and there’s blood and yeah you’re both crying but he’s yours and you’re his and it’s too late to go back now.

==>

“I miss my books.”

“I know you miss your books. The whole fucking world knows you miss your books, you never shut up about them,”

“Shut the fuck up, Strider, you caused this glorious shitshow, you deal with the consequences. Said consequences include listening to me mourn my precious collection and sympathizing appropriately, and I will smite you if you say one more word, god fucking damn it.”

“I thought angels weren’t supposed to use the big guy’s name in vein.”

“Wow, what the fuck did I just say? And I’m kind of renouncing my God for you, in case you have somehow forgotten like massive bastard you are, so I would really fucking appreciate it if you could stop being an asshole and reminding me for one minute – I know it’s hard for you, but please fucking try.”

You squeeze his hand.

“I love you, you know.”

He grumbles those clever little Enochian swears you adore, and bites your ear harshly before muttering, “I love you too.”

You have the fury of Heaven and Hell on your heels and bounties on your head and only so many places to hide, but Karkat’s hand is warm in yours, and his silver eyes are bright, and you love him more than Above or Below have ever loved anything. And he loves you the same way.

And it’s worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> So this ended up a lot longer than I intended. Sorry about that. A lot of it was inspired by Good Omens, one of my favorite books of all time. You should definitely go read it! I'm really sorry to DoubleMeh if this is late, but I hope they enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!!!


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